The Conquest

'Let me be!' Ailith screeched. 'Leave me alone, I want to die and be with Goldwin and my baby!' She struck at him furiously. Rolf seized her wrists to make her stop, and at the same time he squeezed her left hard to control the bleeding.

'If you kill yourself, you will go to hell and never see them again!' he said brutally. 'The priests won't bury you in hallowed ground either. You would probably fetch up in the town ditch!'

For a moment longer she struggled, and then the fight went out of her and she slumped against him as if she were boneless. The sound of her noisy weeping filled the forge.

'I have nothing to live for,' she sobbed into his cloak.

Rolf was completely at a loss to know what he should do. Arlette had never behaved like this. His only experience was of careful, dutiful composure. Perhaps his wife cried in private, but if so, she had never shown him. And of other women, Rolf knew only their welcoming arms and parted thighs. 'Of course you do,' he said awkwardly, and wished that her maids would come to investigate, or the priest, or even Aubert, damn him.

'Name it,' she challenged.

Rolf trawled his mind but caught nothing. So that when she died she would be reunited with her loved ones was a goal too distant and sanctimonious. The Normans held London, her own menfolk were all dead. To tell her that she would find a new husband and bear other children might earn him nothing but a kick in the shins and renewed hysterics. And then, another idea surfaced, one that was so obvious that he had almost overlooked it. He grasped it joyously in both hands.

'Your husband and child are dead, I am sorry for that.' He spoke the words quickly, without any great degree of sincerity because they were only an approach and he wanted to get to the core of the matter. 'But there is another child, a newborn infant, in great need of your help. Two nights ago, Aubert de Remy's wife bore a son. She was too badly mauled by the birth to be able to suckle him herself and Aubert has been searching for a wet nurse ever since.'

She sniffed loudly. 'Why should a Norman child be a reason for me to live?' she challenged in a watery voice.

'Because if you do not, he will die.'

'I do not believe that.'

'Already two women with babies of their own who could have fed Aubert's son have refused — or found excuses not to come to the convent. They are English, you see, and as you so rightly say, he is a Norman child.'

'My husband called Aubert de Remy nithing,' Ailith said. Her voice still quavered, but it was steadier now, and Rolf felt safe enough to release her.

'But you did not, and as I understand it, you and his wife were good friends.'

She said nothing. His hands were red and his cloak looked as if it had been dragged through a butcher's shambles. Blood trickled slowly down her wrist now he had released his pressure. He retrieved the scramaseax blade from the dusty floor of the forge and placed it gently on the bench.

'He has been christened Benedict, and I am told that he has dark eyes and hair and a squall on him fit to blow the thatch off a roof,' Rolf added, his voice soft and persuasive. It was like coaxing a mare to accept a foal not her own. If he had mentally to drape Felice's child in the dead baby's skin he would do so.

She turned away to face the cold forge, but he saw her right hand go to her injured wrist and press down hard on the line of the cut. Even before she spoke, he knew that his battle was won.

'I cannot go looking like this.'

'Then change your gown and make yourself decent.'

'But Goldwin… and my son…' Her voice faltered and her eyes started to fill again. 'I have to see them properly buried. How will I do that?'

'Leave that to me. I will make all the necessary arrangements with your priest.' He tried to keep the impatience out of his voice. Tread softly, he told himself. Imagine that she is one of your mares. 'Then he can come to St Aethelburga's and tell you all that you need to know.' He went slowly to the forge door and held it open.

'The child is two days old,' he said. 'Fortunately he is strong, but the weather is so cold.'

She followed him to the door. 'Benedict, you said?'

'For Aubert's father, although fortunately for his future, the babe resembles his mother's side.'

She lifted her smudged, suffering eyes to his. Although heavy with tears, they were quite lucid now. 'Do not expect my gratitude for this,' she said shakily.

'It is Aubert's gratitude I expect,' he answered, his tone wry.

The nun opened the door and ushered Ailith into a spartan, clean room, its walls whitened with lime daub and given light through an aperture at shoulder height. The only furniture consisted of a crude wooden coffer and a bed. Aubert was sitting on its coverlet of woven wool and was holding his wife's hand, watching her as she slept. When he heard the door open, he turned round.

'Ailith!' His weary features lit with pleasure, but in the next moment sobered as he rose and hastened towards her. 'What are you doing here? Has Goldwin relented?'

'Goldwin is dead.' Ailith felt each word like the slash of a knife. Why couldn't Rolf de Brize have minded his own business instead of forcing her to remain and endure this hell? 'He died at the coronation of your precious Norman Duke.'

'Ah, Ailith, no!'

'Do not touch me!' She took a rapid back-step. 'My husband called you nithing, and if it were not for your wife and the child… and the intervention of Rolf de Brize,' she added with a grimace, 'I would not be here now.'

'Rolf?' Aubert looked more baffled than ever. He rumpled his hand through his unkempt grey curls and rubbed his eyes.

'He says that you have a son in need of a wet nurse?'

'Indeed so. He will die unless we can find a woman to suckle him. Do you know of one?' Aubert looked at her hopefully.

'Yes, I know of one.' Advancing to the bed, Ailith stared down at Felice. The glossy black hair had been neatly braided and arranged, but it only emphasised her pallor.

'She almost bled to death,' Aubert said. 'Even now the nuns are not sure if she will live. Certainly she is unable to feed the baby.'

Ailith could scarcely remember the pangs of her own labour. It was the aftermath that had caused her own mortal wounds. 'I too might have bled to death,' she murmured, touching her bandaged left wrist.

As if aware of Ailith's brooding scrutiny, Felice stirred and licked her lips. Her eyelids fluttered open and then her hand groped for Ailith's.

'I'm so glad you have come,' she whispered. 'I have a son too… born on the eve of the feast of our Lord. Aubert will show him to you. The nuns have put him in a separate room because his crying disturbs me… I am not strong enough to feed him. We have to find a wet nurse.'

Ailith squeezed Felice's narrow fingers. A deluge of words were held back by the sight of Felice's weakness. Ailith could see that even the effort of speech had exhausted her. The new mother's eyelids were drooping and her grip was limp. 'That is why I am here,' Ailith said softly. 'Later, when you are better, I will tell you.'

Felice nodded. 'Tired,' she mumbled and her head lolled on the bolster. 'So tired.'

Ailith gently withdrew her hand and turned to Aubert. 'Take me to the child.'

He led her to a room at the other side of the courtyard. It was warmed by two charcoal braziers and an elderly nun was keeping watch over a cradle containing a swaddled baby while she spun wool. He was asleep, but as Ailith went to the cradle, his small face puckered and he began to grizzle.